


The Green Envelope

by Blackpenny



Series: The Other Side of Project Faust [1]
Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:32:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpenny/pseuds/Blackpenny
Summary: This is a companion piece to Project Faust by darkrogue1 (Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse). Blake and Mortimer have successfully undergone the Sato rejuvenation treatment and come back young. An old enemy notices. Thanks to darkrogue1 for suggestions and encouragement.





	The Green Envelope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkrogue1 (Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Project Faust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026659) by [darkrogue1 (Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse/pseuds/darkrogue1). 



He was already having a bad day when the green envelope arrived unexpectedly. The old man had awoken before dawn with aches in his joints and a sour stomach. This always happens when he doesn’t sleep well, no matter how wholesome his diet or healthy his routine. Taking a hot shower and doing his morning exercises had improved the situation a little, but he was limited to slice of toast for breakfast, to his housekeeper’s disapproval. Too bad. A day like today means pain meds and that means less food, and Mrs. Katz will have to exercise her talents some other time.

One of Redwing’s security guards escorted him to the office as usual. It’s only ten floors below his apartment, but he doesn’t walk by himself any more. When he started this company he could walk around the city unnoticed, but now he’s at constant risk of kidnapping or assassination, at least according to his staff. Personally, the old man thinks they attract more attention this way. The bodyguard is a hand span over six feet with bright ginger hair cut very short. People notice the young giant, so naturally they take a look at his charge. In his seventies Ivan Ostrovsky is what kind people call a fine figure of a man, with a full head of iron-grey hair and erect posture. He wears beautiful suits and coats slightly reminiscent of military uniforms. He looks like somebody whose name you should know, which, of course, he is. 

Only a handful of people in the world know that Ostrovsky, founder of Redwing Enterprises is the former Colonel Olrik, the international criminal who supposedly perished in an aerial explosion over Tokyo decades ago. Since dragging himself from the Bay of Tokyo Olrik has changed his identity twice and become very wealthy. His money started off dirty but has been laundered so very often it’s faded to a very pale grey indeed. Few people admire the private security business, but most respect its power. Today he’s rich, safe, independent, and older than he ever expected to be. Olrik relishes this late-in-life success. He may not have earned it in the conventional sense, but he labored, schemed, and bled for it. 

Olrik doesn’t labor much any more, of course. He comes to the office late in the morning, takes meetings, reviews documents, and leave the bulk of the work to his management team. Every day he swims, or lifts weights, or has physical therapy. It’s a matter of necessity. He takes care excellent care of his body for the same reason he stopped smoking years ago and now confines himself to one or two drinks a day: his body suffers for every act or neglect, abuse, or over-indulgence. At least once a week he thinks about retiring or selling out. It’s a ridiculous problem, but one that occupies his mind: what does the world have to offer a wealthy man who has already lived past the average life span?

The green envelope is a distraction, so he saves it for last, dealing with a number of questions and decisions in order of importance. Michael, his robotically efficient young assistant glides in at noon with a light lunch from one of local restaurants. Olrik eats his crab bisque and toast slowly, postponing the inevitable. The envelop is unexpectedly thick this quarter. It’s also three weeks early and not because his London law firm is being extra-efficient. As Olrik reads he can feel his blood pressure rising. He slams his desk buzzer, not that it makes any difference as Michael has made sure that nothing short of a sledgehammer will break the thing.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

“Do I have any meetings this afternoon?”

“Haircut at 3, nothing else.”

“Have him come to my suite instead. I’m going home.”

“I’ll get your escort at once. Do you need anything else, sir?”

Olrik sighs. What he wants most is bicarbonate of soda, water, and silence, but he sends young Michael back to his desk. Once the guard has dropped him off at the apartment Olrik reassures Mrs. Katz that all is well and spreads the report out over the mahogany table in the den. If this is Ms. Minot’s idea of prank, it’s both masterful and bizarre, but his London lawyer has never exhibited any form of humor in their twenty year acquaintance. He stares at the photographs: Blake and Mortimer - they have the nerve to use their own surnames - looking just as they did when he met them at Bletchley Park in 1944. His enemies had fallen off the radar for quite some time before an operative picked up their trail in Japan where they again disappeared, or, rather, “disappeared.” Then two young men quietly returned to England with fresh passports and old clothes, and took up residence in Park Lane. The nerve! But then it occurs to Olrik that his old adversaries have passed into legend in their own lifetimes. They are - were - like museum pieces: respected but rarely visited and irrevocably linked to the past. He is probably one a handful of people who even knew they were still alive.

He reads the accompanying report which is low on detail and high on speculation. When he comes to the part about the Sato rejuvenation clinic Olrik makes an intuitive leap. One of the pictures is of the current CEO of Sato Health, the nephew of the famous scientist. Nephew like hell. Somehow that blasted man has discovered the fountain of youth and he’s passing out drinks. The last page of the report makes his stomach twist. Mortimer has gone back to physics, although he seems to be working semi-independently, at least for now. Blake is consulting for MI-5, looking into the international weapons trade. No way in hell is that a coincidence. Cursing, Olrik tosses the papers down and begins pacing. Luckily his suite of rooms is big enough to put on some mileage because he has anger to work out and thoughts to sort.

Olrik is about to pour himself a drink when the bell sounds. Of course, the barber. Mrs. Katz answers the door and escorts the man in. Fortunately it’s Freddy, the owner, a man nearly his own age. Olrik doesn’t think he could put up with a younger man just now. Freddy spends the entire thirty minutes describing the wonders that are his grandchildren and for once Olrik doesn’t interrupt. When Freddy holds up the mirrors Olrik notes that the trim is perfect as always and that he is, without a doubt, 75 goddamned years old. He thanks the man and sends him to Mrs. Katz for payment. No point in making another appointment; if everything goes well, he’ll be out of town four weeks from now.

He’ll need to arrange everything through a third party. He strains to recall the name of the young associate who so impressed him the last time he met with his personal lawyers at Sullivan and Cromwell; Marquez, no, Torres. The kid has imagination and nobody will kick at him dealing with a minor personal matter, which is what it will be as far as anyone else is concerned.

Olrik adds the legal appointment to his Morning Michael List. He’ll need to make an addition to his will; no point in coming back young and poor. He’ll also need to arrange travel, new ID, a million other things. Above all he needs to step up the surveillance on those sons of bitches poised to ruin his old age, or new age if things work out.

Suddenly tired, Olrik pours himself a pre-dinner glass of wine (gin doesn’t agree with his stomach any more) and ponders the unfairness of it all. He could have sent assassins to kill both of those meddlers any time in the last twenty years, but he didn’t. He was content to keep an ocean between them and live in peace. He has citizenship! He pays taxes! His gives to charity! How dare they come back to screw with him another day. Olrik’s mind is made up. He will find a way to go through this rejuvenation experience if it kills him, and so what if it does. The choice is now to come back young, rich, and privileged or spend his last years battling old enemies. Ugh. His stomach is in a knot. He’ll have to take a sleep aid and go to bed early if he wants to be any good tomorrow. With a sour look Olrik sips his wine and tries to remember what it was like to be twenty-five. He can’t, not really. It’s one thing to remember that one was young and strong and impulsive and quite another to try to conjure up those feelings. He’ll just have to see for himself.

**Author's Note:**

> In my modest version of the Blake and Mortimer universe Olrik survived the helicopter crash in Tokyo.


End file.
